Gandalf and Tolkien Against Literary Labels and Analytical Spirit

Rethinking Romanticism

Ivan Aivazovsky (1817–1900), Stormy sea at night 1849 (source)

Recently, Dr. Emily Finley has begun an interesting series of articles dedicated to Romanticism. In the first of these, “What is the Romantic Imagination? It’s time to take a look at the Romantic movement,”¹ Mrs. Finley—in a subtle continuation of Irving Babbitt’s polemical spirit—seeks to draw firm lines of demarcation meant to protect us from the pitfalls of Romanticism and an exalted sentimentalism. Here is a substantial excerpt in which the author’s intentions are laid out:

Given the pervasive influence of this movement in modern Western culture, it is worth examining it and understanding its moral-spiritual ethos, for this ethos has largely replaced the Christian moral ethos. More, it has subverted Christianity by convincing a great many people, Christian and non-Christian, that sentimental humanitarianism is Christianity.

Before I get to Romanticism’s legacy of sentimental humanitarianism and its influence on the culture, including children’s books, it is necessary to take a brief look at the Romantic movement. What was it? What were its defining characteristics? I focus especially on its imaginative dimension. The Romantic aesthetic reveals a great deal about its moral-spiritual core.

It’s clear that the words above come from an openly critical perspective. They remind me of Joseph Conrad, who never misses an opportunity to weave subtle remarks against Romanticism into the intricate filigree of his character portraits. Speaking of Lord Jim, the fascinating Mr. Stein perfectly expresses a remark that is (!) both coherent and oxymoronic:

‘He is romantic—romantic,’ he repeated. ‘And that is very bad—very bad…’ ‘Very good, too,’ he added.

Emphasizing contradiction, Captain Charles Marlow’s doubtful question then comes to plunge us into the vortex of calm uncertainties:

But is he?

If we apply Mr. Stein’s verdict not to a character or an author but to so-called “Romanticism,” the emphasis would fall on the “very bad” part. After carefully reading Mrs. Finley’s articles, I understand her reaction. Indeed, if we consider Jean-Jacques Rousseau a precursor or perhaps even a Romantic author, we can only unleash the lightning bolts of our unrestrained criticism. I have been spared this temptation because, instinctively, I have never considered this charlatan anything more than a pseudo-Romantic (in fact, a pseudo-anything). I have always been astonished that Babbitt took him seriously. Probably only to make it clear to us that even geniuses can err. In any case, Rousseau was nothing more than a cheap speculator dressed in the garments of a grand stylist who believed—in his unmeasured arrogance—that he was reinventing the wheel while spewing forth some dreadful anti-Christian naturalist platitudes.

But it was not only the presence of Rousseau in Mrs. Finley’s article that provoked my reaction. It was also the absence of certain important authors—often labeled as “Romantic”—who had many meaningful things to say about the movement without ever being suspected of sentimentalism. What’s more, some of these were born Catholics. Others, converts.

So, where is Friedrich Schlegel? Or even the one known as Novalis—Georg Philipp Friedrich Freiherr von Hardenberg? And why shouldn’t we invite to this banquet the extraordinary storyteller and disciple of Blessed Anne Catherine Emmerich, Clemens Brentano, along with E.T.A. Hoffmann’s friend, Karl Wilhelm Salice-Contessa? And what about the brilliant French stylists François-René de Chateaubriand and Barbey d’Aurevilly? Or the author of the immortal novel I Promessi Sposi, the Italian Alessandro Manzoni, and the only poet who can be compared with Novalis, the Romanian Mihai Eminescu? And my list could go on. In any case, by reading those I have mentioned, I assure you, we will find something other than the “sentimental humanitarianism” mentioned by Dr. Finley. Something very different, I would say. I am convinced that one of the most important scholars of literature labeled “Romantic,” Dr. Julian Eilmann, would agree with me. In fact, a little later, I will show how his ideas from a monograph dedicated to the works of J.R.R. Tolkien inspired my own approach. I also believe that the distinguished Finnish scholar, Dr. Asko Nivala, should be invited to our symposium. He is the one who tells us:

According to a still customary prejudice, Romanticism was the age of exaggerated emotions, authoritarian dogmatism and mystical superstition.²

Thus, those exaggerated emotions and mystical-magical superstitions so often associated with Romantics and Romanticism may belong to the category of “customary prejudice.” Personally, I agree that this is the case. Nothing is more widespread than the clichés and prejudices spread through school textbooks and various anthologies. Consequently, we must tirelessly combat them, warning one another whenever we fall under their pernicious influence.

Apologia Pro Arte et Artifex

For now, setting aside discussions about authors and interpretations, I will begin by denouncing the error of labeling. I would like this warning to be taken as seriously as possible. For we are all indebted to textbooks and anthologies—some better, some worse—but all, without exception, stuff our heads with labels. Literary histories, in particular, are filled with “Classicism,” “Baroque,” “Romanticism,” “Victorian” writers, “Realists,” “Magical Realists,” “Realist Realists,” “Lost Realists,” “Existentialists,” and so on. But when it comes to art—true art, I mean—nothing is more problematic than classifying creators as if they were various species of butterflies pinned in a display case.

If labels are necessary in zoology, botany, chemistry, and astronomy, in art they are profoundly harmful. Just like the infamous—yet sometimes necessary—retellings of novels and stories, nothing is more unjust than classifying a writer or a poet. Therefore, I urge you: label and classify an author only after you have carefully considered what you are doing, if you do it at all.

By definition, unique, unrepeatable, and irreproducible (which is why epigones usually succeed only in being pathetic), these creators deserve our esteem, expressed by savoring and appreciating the quality of the delight their writings offer us. This is the primary measure of things when it comes to art: the capacity to enchant, to delight. Only after that—and not necessarily even then—may come discussion of the author’s work or works. Does this attitude exclude moral evaluation? By no means! But it places things in their proper order, while acknowledging the inherent risks.

We may avoid or even reject the work of authors we deem dubious or immoral; yet that does not necessarily mean they are not great writers. For instance, I regard Gabriele D’Annunzio as both one of the greatest writers of the 20th century and, at the same time, utterly poisonous. James Joyce is a brilliant writer, but he is—at least sometimes—blasphemous. Mateiu Caragiale wrote an extraordinary novel, Craii de Curtea-Veche (The Gallants of the Old Court), about the decadent interwar life of Bucharest, but it is truly dark. May I continue?

Writers possess the art, the craft of fascinating, enchanting, and attracting, regardless of the nature of their content. Tudor Arghezi wrote some of the most beautiful poems imaginable about the abject environment of prison camps, where the most deranged convicts lived. Yes, great artists can do that—just as certain medieval or Renaissance painters (like Hieronymus Bosch) excelled at beautifully depicting demons. But the content they dress in the purple robes of their poems and novels is another matter entirely—one that involves an exceptional degree of responsibility on their part.

Aware of the risks involved by his art, the immortal Cervantes solemnly declared in the preface to The Exemplary Novels:

One thing I boldly declare: could I by any means suppose that these novels could excite any bad thought or desire in those who read them, I would rather cut off the hand with which I write them, than give them to the public.³

Yes, there are novels, poems, and stories that can excite bad thoughts in those who read them. That is why great Saints and Doctors of the Church, such as Basil the Great and Alphonsus Maria de Liguori, warned parents about the reading material of their children. But once we become aware of these things, we must cultivate that alert and discerning state of mind that prevents us from seeing enemies where none exist. And when it comes to writers and poets, applying easy labels is entirely inadvisable.

To convince you that I am not alone in the club of those who refuse labels, I will introduce a distinguished guest. In a little-known letter from October 1971, Professor Tolkien left us one of the most pertinent critiques of the classifications and labels so beloved by literary historians:

Affixing ‘labels’ to writers, living or dead, is an inept procedure, in any circumstances: a childish amusement of small minds: and very ‘deadening,’ since at best it overemphasizes what is common to a selected group of writers, and distracts attention from what is individual (and not classifiable) in each of them, and is the element that gives them life (if they have any).⁴

What constitutes an author’s “personality” is precisely what eludes labels. The “voice” of a writer—especially one of great stature—is as unique and unrepeatable as the voice of Feodor Ivanovich Chaliapin (1873–1938) or that of Luciano Pavarotti (1935–2007). This is why, when it comes to artists—be they poets, writers, musicians, painters, illustrators, actors, or sculptors—classifying them through labels is, most of the time, unfair (to say the least).

Art is characterized, by its very nature, by the particularities of unique, irreducible, and unrepeatable personalities of the artists. The only absolutely fair thing we can say about creators is to apply the principle of identity that gave Heidegger so much trouble: “Virgil is Virgil,” “Dante is Dante,” “Cervantes is Cervantes,” “Shakespeare is Shakespeare,” “Kazuo is Kazuo.” That’s all—nothing more.

When he wanted to express the essence of the work of the most important Romanian poet of the 20th century, a Nobel candidate in 1964, the literary critic Nicolae Manolescu simply said: “Arghezi is Arghezi.” Indeed, for those who read and reread Tudor Arghezi’s poetry, no statement can be truer or more honest than that. Moreover, it leaves us free with our essential choices: we like or we don’t like author X, painter Y, or composer Z. The rest matters very little. What use are insect collections full of labels to those who simply wish to delight their hearts and minds with a charming creation?

Any label, such as “Romantic,” implies the possibility of defining such a movement. Yet, very rarely are the conditions for a proper definition set out in advance. Because we are not dealing with a simple object—a tree, a bird, or a star—but with a polymorphous, multifaceted entity: a movement, an aesthetic-ideological current made up of many elements. That’s why a super-erudite scholar like Emil Turdeanu allowed himself to astonish us—in his study on Lord Byron’s Oscar of Alva⁵—with a statement that is both ironic and profoundly insightful:

Seneca—the tragedian—is the last romantic of the ancient world, just as Shakespeare is the first romantic of the new world.

If we follow Turdeanu’s logic, we can see Romantics everywhere and in every age. Clearly, Homer was as deeply Romantic as Pindar or Virgil. Or—why not?—as Thomas Malory or Henryk Sienkiewicz. But more Romantic than all of them was, obviously, who else but Shakespeare? Choose whichever major authors you like and add them to the list. I believe Kazuo Ishiguro also fits (especially with The Remains of the Day), doesn’t he? But where do we stop? Nowhere. Because, in fact, the definitions given to Romanticism are so broad that, in the words of Paul Feyerabend, “anything goes.” And, I would add, not just anything, but (almost) anyone.

If there’s one thing I oppose with all my strength, it is this labeling of great poets and writers—and, in general, of any category of creators. Each author deserves to be treated individually. Each author deserves to be protected from ignoble and unfair associations. What do Rousseau, Eichendorff, and Novalis have in common? Or Eminescu and Victor Hugo? (Almost) nothing. But wait! Fine, we eliminate labels. But what does that mean? That there is no such thing as “Romanticism”? That there is no “Classicism” or “Baroque”? That there’s no “Gothic”—or any other movement you might choose? I answer, in the spirit of Conrad’s Mr. Stein: in one sense, yes; in another sense, no.

A more solid answer is offered by a German scholar, a brilliant specialist in German Romantic literature and J.R.R. Tolkien. This scholar is Dr. Julian Eilmann—a name perhaps already familiar to some of you. He investigated Romanticism with exceptional erudition in a substantial monograph, J.R.R. Tolkien—Romanticist and Poet (Walking Tree Publishers, 2017), based on his doctoral dissertation supervised by one of the most important Tolkien scholars of our time, Professor Thomas Honegger from Friedrich Schiller University of Jena.

Can “Romanticism” be defined?

Despite his remarcable erudition, Dr. Eilmann faced the same problem that Alessandro Manzoni had already pointed out back in 1823 in his letter to the Marquis Cesare d’Augusto. In that letter, the Italian author noted not only that,

Ma questa parola è applicata a così vari sensi, ch’io provo un vero bisogno d’esporle, o d’accennarle almeno quello ch’io c’intendo (But this word is applied in such various senses that I feel a real need to explain, or at least hint at, what I mean by it),⁶

but also that there was widespread confusion caused by the fact that the same word—“Romanticism”—was understood differently in France, Germany, England, and elsewhere. Although more than two centuries have passed since Manzoni made these observations, the situation has not changed much.

From the outset, Dr. Eilmann points out that “the term Romanticism is one of the most controversial concepts of literary periods in literary history” (p. 31). This is why some researchers—like Helmut Schanze—believe that “we should speak rather of ‘Romanticists’ than of ‘Romanticism’,” while Gerhard Schulz suggests we abandon the use of the term “Romanticism” altogether. If we were to follow these two suggestions—which are, at least for me, very compelling—we would have to discuss each author individually, avoiding hasty generalizations. (In fact, that is exactly what I intend to do in my upcoming articles.) Then, without necessarily abandoning the descriptor “Romanticist,” we should use the term itself sparingly and with great caution.

Absorbing the substance of all the debates surrounding a term with such polymorphous geometry, Dr. Eilmann chooses the path that, at first glance, seems the most appropriate. Instead of discussing “Romanticism,” he seeks to define that “Romanticist mind-set” to which Tolkien himself was indebted. Leaving the detailed presentation of Dr. Eilmann’s research to a longer review I am currently working on, I will mention here only two of the key pillars of this “Romanticist mind-set.” The first is “the longing for the marvelous” or “longing for transcendence” (p. 31). This would be the “axis” of Romanticism understood as a mindset. Of course, if we follow authors such as Friedrich Schlegel, Joseph von Eichendorff, or Clemens Brentano, we can immediately identify this principle with the “longing for the absolute (or infinite)” in the sense of “longing for God.” And I assure you, we would not be mistaken.

The second principle mentioned by Dr. Eilmann as significant for the Romantic mind-set is “the notion that in earlier times people encountered and were enchanted by a poetic primordial power” (p. 32). If you’re looking for an equivalent of the common, vulgar notion of “magic,” this primordial poetic power would be the ideal candidate. In my opinion—which I will elaborate on in other articles—this is one of the deepest intuitions of (some) Romantic authors. Even if, most of the time, they are not fully conscious of the nature of this poetic power (the power of the “word”—λόγος—I would add), they still challenge us to think and reflect on the most important aspect of post-lapsarian human history.

I will stop here with these marginal notes on Julian Eilmann’s analysis of the Romantic mind-set. I do so in order to return to the passage quoted at the beginning from Tolkien’s letter. We remember how firmly he spoke out against labeling writers—calling it “an inept procedure.” The reason Tolkien invoked was a very serious one: labels, at best, capture certain common traits among the authors analyzed, but they overlook the specific, the absolutely unique “voice” of an author crammed into an insect collection labeled “Classical,” “Baroque,” or “Romantic.” I hope I won’t upset anyone by saying that, as a writer of fiction and poetry, I completely share Tolkien’s views. Indeed, as I have already said, every author—no matter how minor—deserves individual attention, with the effort to listen for their distinct voice, regardless of the quality of their work. Naturally, our subsequent evaluation is both justified and expected, but only after granting the author the right to be heard in the fullness of his individuality.

Now, however, I will draw from Tolkien’s letter what I consider the most important critical argument against the dissection of literature in particular, and of art in general. Assuming someone has read the works of a writer carefully, Tolkien continues, “some readers will (I suppose) wish to ‘criticize’ it, and even to analyze it.” If that’s what readers want, so be it, Tolkien says—“they are at liberty to do these things.” But then comes his critique of criticism:

Not that this attitude of mind has my sympathy: as should be clearly perceived in Vol. I p. 272: Gandalf: ‘He that breaks a thing to find out what it is has left the path of wisdom.’⁷

Gandalf the Wise’s words have been, ever since I first discovered them more than twenty-five years ago, a true guiding light for me. They not only represent the most authentic and venerable sapiential Tradition, but they are also, I assure you, not 100%, but 1000% Romantic. If you wish to grasp—like Dr. Eilmann—the essence of Romanticism’s essence, I believe this is it. I confess that this is the personal reason why I have an immense interest in the Romantics, despite their shortcomings and “flaws.”

Pre-Lapsarian Knowledge, Post-Lapsarian Knowledge

To clarify a bit the nature of Gandalf/Tolkien’s statement, I will make a few observations inspired by the writings of the great Church Fathers and Doctors of the Church, such as Augustine, Gregory of Nazianzus, Gregory of Nyssa, Athanasius the Great, and Maximus the Confessor. The heart of the matter concerns the “mutation” suffered by the human soul after the original sin.

Before this terrible event, although still in an imperfect stage, human knowledge was—let’s say—“intuitive,” of the kind associated with “divine illumination,” especially linked to Saint Augustine and Saint Bonaventure (though also present in Saint Thomas Aquinas). This knowledge, contemplative in nature, enjoyed what Saint Maximus calls the “divine reasons” (in Greek, λόγοι) of creatures, without seeking to dissect or analyze. This indicates a certain original order of the human cognitive faculties. The “analytical” faculty—the one responsible for “dissections”—was, so to speak, “inactive.” Because, as we all know too well, when you are overwhelmed by the divine wonder of a creature wrapped in a beauty that has its origin in the Ever-Beautiful One, you no longer have any inclination for analysis.

Who would think of taking apart the musical instruments of Niccolò Paganini, Frédéric Chopin, or Pablo Casals during one of their performances? Aesthetic ecstasy does not allow, in healthy souls, for such unimaginable deviations. If this is what we experience, on a human level, in the presence of Beaux-Arts, can you imagine what it must have been like in the presence of the One who is Beauty itself—God?

In contrast to the synthetic, intuitive-contemplative spirit, the analytical spirit wants to see how things are made. It wants to open the pocket watch and take it apart piece by piece. It becomes obsessed not with the ethereal sounds arising from the strings touched by the master, but with the material from which the strings are made. But does it help in any way to discover that they are made from horsehair?

I dare to add that this analytical-discursive spirit is specific only to our fallen state, being useful to us for daily life as we know it now—but not as we will have it in the state of human beings with “heavenly bodies” after the end of the world and the Final Judgment. For only now do we need to compare, to plan, to build. In God’s eternal world, none of these things will be necessary (for instance, we will no longer need houses). Therefore, even our current way of thinking and knowing is a transient one, suited to our present condition.

Careful, though! This does not mean that after the resurrection the faculties of our souls will be different; no—but they will be restructured and ennobled by the supernatural grace given by God. They will be cleansed, purified, reorganized, and lifted up toward contemplation, which offers the wonder of all wonders: the beatific vision for which Dante longed.

This is what Professor Tolkien criticizes through the words of Gandalf the Wise—the very lack of wisdom in our modern, mechanistic and naturalist-materialist world. A world not of Elrond’s, Aragorn’s, and Bilbo’s elves, who, whenever they find leisure, devote themselves to the fine arts, composing epic poems—or “heroic romances,” as Tolkien called his works—recited in the Hall of Fire, but rather a world of Sauron’s and Saruman’s orcs, who analyze, dissect, mutilate, and, in any case, tend to destroy everything around them.

After the fall of Adam and Eve, the direction of human history is a downward one: from the original Beauty and the contemplation of creation in God’s uncreated Wisdom to the ugliness of a hostile world in which beauty only occasionally shines through—and which people strive to dominate in a race for power that ultimately leads to Hell. In other words, from the original power of poetry (of the Divine Logos manifested in His words hidden in creation—vestigia Dei) to dry and sterile prose—and, eventually, to shortcuts and emojis.

Some of the poets and writers labeled as “Romantics”—Tolkien being included—understood perfectly that the excessive use of the analytical-discursive faculty, characteristic of our fallen state, is an act with terrible consequences. We, today, in the post-pandemic era as slaves to generalized digitalization, feel these consequences acutely. The solution, of course, can only come from realigning ourselves onto the path of contemplation and the “rekindling” of that intuitive-contemplative faculty, obstructed and eclipsed by the fall of our first parents.

Launching an invitation to continue this discussion, I would emphasize that the “instrument” in question is not imagination, although phantasía (φαντασία) is—analogically speaking—related to the highest faculty—noûs (νοῦς)⁸—of an intuitively illuminated knowledge (that is difficult to access in our current condition). And yet, when speaking of imagination (phantasía) as a means of knowledge, the Romantics were attempting to (re)discover the path that can lead us to the contemplation of the Infinite. This is why their efforts—even when misguided or straying at times—deserve our appreciation.

Every time I write such articles, Gandalf’s warning rings in my ears without ceasing. Aware of the risks to which I expose myself—and you—through these (almost) analytical-discursive excursions, I will end my essay by gladdening your hearts with one of Eichendorff’s most beautiful poems, Moonlight Night, in the translation of Mr. Julian Eilmann, who wisely chose it to conclude his monograph, J.R.R. Tolkien—Romanticist and Poet (p. 443):

Mondnacht/Moonlight Night
by Joseph Freiherr von Eichendorff

It was like Heaven’s glimmer
caressing Terra’s skin,
that in Her blossoms’ shimmer
She had to dream of Him.

The breeze was gently walking
through wheatfields near and far;
the woods were softly talking
so bright shone ev’ry star.

And, oh, my soul extended
its wings through skies to roam:
O’er quiet lands suspended,
my soul was flying home.

1. What is the Romantic Imagination?

2. I recommend the article signed by Asko Nivala, “Friedrich Schlegel's early Romantic notion of religion in relation to two presuppositions of the Enlightenment,” in Approaching Religion, Vol. 1, No. 2, December 2011, pp. 35-45: https://www.doria.fi/bitstream/handle/10024/134508/AR_Nivala.pdf?sequence=2&isAllowed=y [Accessed: 25 March 2025].

3. The Exemplary Novels of Miguel De Cervantes Saavedra, Translated from the Spanish by Walter K. Kelly, London: George Bell and Sons, 1881, Author’s Preface, available online here: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/14420/14420-h/14420-h.htm [Accessed: 25 March 2025].

4. From a letter to Peter Szabó Szentmihályi (draft), in The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, Edited by Humphrey Carpenter with the assistance of Christopher Tolkien, HarperCollins, 1995, p. 414.

5. “Emil Turdeanu on Byron’s Oscar of Alva: Mythological Analysis and Literary History:” https://voegelinview.com/emil-turdeanu-on-byrons-oscar-of-alva-mythological-analysis-and-literary-history/ [Accessed: 25 March 2025].

6. The original version of Manzoni’s letter can be read online here: https://it.wikisource.org/wiki/Lettera_sul_romanticismo_a_Cesare_D%27Azeglio [Accessed: 25 March 2025].

7. The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, Edited by Humphrey Carpenter with the assistance of Christopher Tolkien, HarperCollins, Ibidem.

8. In his famous treatise De Anima, 433 a10, Aristotle says that phantasía is a form of νόησις (noēsis - i.e., “intellection”).